A Stunner
by PartyInTheNorth
Summary: AU set in 19th Century England. Willas is a Pre-Raphaelite painter and Sansa is a friend of Margaery's who secretly sits for his paintings. That's not the only thing they do in secret, mind. Inspired by the fact that Sansa has red hair, and so did most Pre-Raphaelite models or 'stunners'. Sansa Stark x Willas Tyrell
1. Chapter 1

'Sansa, what time is Miss Tyrell expecting you?' asked Catelyn to her daughter.

Sansa feigned disinterest. 'Half past two, Mamma,' she sighed.

'Sansa, don't be rude!' reprimanded Catelyn, 'I sincerely hope you are not so rude to Miss Tyrell!'

'I apologise, Mamma,' Sansa said, finding it difficult to conceal her smile.

Her brother Jon escorted her to Highgarden, as he always did because he was the only brother who could be trusted not to tell her parents what she was really up to. Not that he knew. He just knew that often Sansa visited whilst Margaery was out, and though she pretended to dislike visiting, Sansa would happily spend longer at Highgarden than Winterfell.

Jon saw her through to the drawing room, where Margaery was sitting with Loras. They both stood when she came in, and Margaery smiled at Jon.

'Thank you for delivering my little friend to me, Mr Stark,' she said, and Jon bowed and left, heading home.

Sansa sat and had a cup of tea with Margaery and Loras, and their conversation was nice, but after a few minutes, Margaery donned her mischeivous smile. 'He's in the garden, my dear Sansa, if you wish to go.'

Sansa smiled sheepishly. 'I'm sorry, Marge, it was lovely talking to you- and you too, Mr Tyrell,' she stood, 'I'll see you later.'

With that, Sansa swept out into the gardens, standing on the terrace to survey the scene. She spied Willas' easel before him, set up on the lawn under the shade of a weeping willow by the small brook that ran through their garden.

Silently, Sansa descended the terrace steps to the lawn. She came up behind Willas and peered over his shoulder. It was the painting he had started two days earlier, and he was currently shading in the shadow of the trees in the top right corner. He was sat in his chair, so Sansa had to bend over to place her hands on his shoulders- and her chin on her hands.

'Good afternoon, Lady Stark,' he said in a silky, deep voice, as formal as if he was meeting her in a tea-room in London.

Sansa slipped around the front of his chair, and settled herself back on the stone wall of the little bridge, loosening the braids from her hair and weaving a few wildflowers in. She closed her eyes and drew a mournful expression onto her face.

'A little to the left, Sansa,' Willas said, holding fingers up to measure the distances, 'Your left!'

Sansa laughed as she shuffled the right way this time.

'Sit still, love,' Willas said, lifting his paintbrush.

'I can't,' Sansa said, smiling involuntarily as Willas' liquid eyes rose up to meet hers, 'Not with you sitting there, looking _so perfect_.'

Willas laughed, and put his paintbrush down.

'Come on then,' he said, lifting his walking cane and heaving himself to his feet, then heading over to her. When he reached her, Sansa linked her arm through Willas' and walked across the bridge with him. On the other side, she met his eyes and briefly pressed a kiss to his lips.

'Come find me,' she whispered, and then ran away into the labyrinth his parents had paid a fortune to have constructed in their garden. It was a beautiful thing, its walls six feet high hedges curving in towards a pavilion in the centre. He had once painted Margaery there, as Hermia waiting in the woods, before he found Sansa with her beautiful red hair and she became his stunner, his muse, his model. His lover.

He walked as fast as he could to the centre, following the path he always took, calling out 'Sansa? Where are you?' in a light voice as he clicked his stick along the gravel.

In the centre, she was laid out on the floor of the little bandstand, staring up at the ceiling, her red hair splayed across the stone.

'It's a shame you won't sit for me,' Willas murmured as he laid down on his side beside her, his head raised on an elbow to look at her. 'You look particularly ravishing today.'

Sansa smiled, opening her cerulean eyes and staring at Willas.

'You're an artist,' she replied, 'You see the world through your lovely Pre-Raphaelite haze and think everything more beautiful than the last you saw it.'

Willas laughed lightly, and lifted a hand to run his fingers through her tangled hair.

'You are beautiful,' he murmured, draping his hand down to her bodice, and causing her to suck in breath like a wind.

'Joffrey assures me so each time I see him,' Sansa spat.

Willas rolled away, onto his back, ignoring the sting in his bad leg when he did so.

'I would rather die than see you marry that Baratheon pig,' he groaned.

Sansa had said it before, and she would say it again. 'We could run away,' she whispered, turning onto her side and hooking her leg over Willas'.

'Sansa,' he sighed, stroking her hair as her head dropped onto his chest, 'I'm a painter, not a character from a romantic novel.'

'Oh, but you are,' she said, looking up at him, so radiant that he couldn't help kissing her mid-sentence, a long, slow kiss, 'You're the roguish, handsom hero, corrupting an innocent young girl with his beautiful eyes and his ruinous, heavy hands.'

'Ruinous?' he echoed, 'Oh, Sansa, but I refuse to ruin you, I'll never ruin you, you perfect, _good_ girl.'

It was true, much to Sansa's chagrin. Even when they were so close, and his long fingers stroked her so beautifully she screamed, Willas would never let himself get past the point of sensibleness. No matter how much she begged him, his breeches remained firmly intact, and he wouldn't ruin her. (Though if it was half so good as when he touched her, Sansa didn't see how something so good could ruin anything).

'I don't want to be a good girl,' she purred, her fingers running down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. She was very glad it was a warm day, and he wasn't wearing a jacket or an undershirt. 'Good girls marry Joffrey Baratheons.'

'Oh, Sansa,' he muttered, seizing her face in the palm of his hand and kissing her ferociously.

His hand slipped under her skirts, and as she gasped and moaned softly, she soon forgot Joffrey Baratheon.

When they got cold, the pair went inside, bringing Willas' easel with them. They set up in the conservatory, just so that Willas could do some detailed study on her face (though he could quite easily have painted it from memory).

She laid back with her eyes closed.

'I still don't know what expression you want,' she said.

'Think Eurydice thoughts,' he called across to her, smiling, 'Now keep still.'

After a few minutes, Sansa heard footsteps on the marble and opened her eyes. Margaery was in the room, looking over her brother's shoulder.

'You've caught her likeness precisely, brother,' she said, smiling pleasantly at Sansa, 'You look beautiful, my dear Sansa.'

'Thank you, Marge,' Sansa said, moving.

'Oh, come on, Marge, she won't keep still now!' complained Willas good-naturedly.

'You've been sitting for hours, she must be tired!' protested Margaery, in a voice that said she knew very well what they had been doing.

'Oh, what time is it, Marge?' asked Sansa, walking over to stand slightly too close to Willas.

'Half past five,' she answered, and Sansa gasped.

'Oh, I have to go home!' she exclaimed, and Willas' face fell. 'I have a dinner with the Baratheons.'

'I'll walk you,' Willas said, picking up his cane.

'Your leg...' started Sansa.

'Will be fine,' he finished, leading her through to the hallway, where a maid fetched their coats. Sansa quickly said goodbye to Margaery and then left with Willas' arm hooked through hers. The pressure of his flesh against hers, even through all their layers of clothing, made her giddy.

'Will you have to dance with Joffrey tonight?' asked Willas quietly.

Sansa nodded, looking at the floor.

'Damn him,' Willas spat, taking a heaving breath to calm himself. 'I should be dancing with you, damn my leg, and you should not have to marry a man you despise.'

'Boy,' she corrected, 'He's a stupid boy.'

Willas laughed bitterly. 'I always forget I am so much older than you, sweet Sansa. Maybe that is why your father wouldn't let me marry you.'

'No, he and Robert Baratheon have been planning my and Joffrey's wedding since we were children,' she explained, 'I am caught in a trap.'

'Oh, love,' he murmured, pulling her into the shade of a pine tree on Winterfell's lawn to buy some time. Willas put his hands on her waist and kissed her hard, dragging his lips along her jawline and across her cheekbone, marking his territory so that no matter how much Joffrey repulsed her, she would remember Willas' touch, wear it like a badge.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' she said with another kiss, before shaking the pine needles off and walking calmly up to the front door of her home.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this (ridiculously long) chapter! I've wanted to write something about this pairing for a long time, and kudos to Maie (wants2beloved on tumblr) for workshopping (if that's what we did haha) this plot idea. I've been obsessed with the Pre-Raphaelites for ages, so it was the greatest piece of inspiration possible!**


	2. Chapter 2

**...**

The next morning, Sansa went early to Highgarden, and only Willas was in. Jon seemed suspicious when they were led into the empty parlour, and stood before Sansa.

'Promise me you won't let him dishonour you, Sansa,' said Jon.

He was the brother she had disliked as a child, but Sansa now realised that Jon was a good man, and she hated to lie to him.

'I promise,' she said.

The promise was forgotten the moment Willas came through the door. His eyes lit up when he saw Sansa, and he heaved himself over on his cane to her immediately,

'Miss Stark, always a pleasure,' Willas said, coming over to her and kissing her hand. His eyes met hers as he did, melting her knees with his beautiful honey eyes. His hair was loose and curly, and he was dressed in a fine day suit, light enough that Sansa could see and imagine the lean muscles underneath. Jon coughed, and Willas turned back to him as if noticing him for the first time, although he had walked past the elder Stark when he entered the room. They shook hands. 'Good morning, Mr Stark.'

'Good morning, Mr Tyrell,' answered Jon, and there was a stiff silence before he spoke again. 'Sansa is engaged to Joffrey Baratheon, Mr Tyrell, don't forget that.'

Willas nodded curtly, his expression tense. 'Thank you, Mr Stark, but I assure you that I have only your sister's best interests at heart,' he paused, looking at Sansa, 'Unlike Mr Baratheon.'

Jon relaxed. 'Would that her betrothed was you instead,' he muttered, and then left.

The moment the door shut, Sansa wrapped her arms around Willas' neck and kissed him fiercely. He almost fell as he lost his balance, but she pulled him back and then guided him to the floor. Willas lay over her on the Persian rug, her red hair twisting into its intricate pattern, her face flushed and breathless. He raised himself up on his hands, ignoring her as she kept rising up to kiss him.

'San, I just promised to your brother that I wouldn't ruin you!' he exclaimed, and she flopped back down before him, 'Why do you keep looking so wonderfully ruinable, damn you?'

Sansa laughed, opening her mouth to accept his tongue when he kissed her.

'Everyone's out?' she asked when he lay down on his side next to her, admiring her cheekbones and stroking her hair.

'Yes, just us and the servants,' Willas answered, smiling devilishly.

'So we can...?' she trailed off temptingly, and Willas felt a shock of electricity in his groin.

'Well, we might scare the maid,' he answered, but continued the moment her face fell, cupping her face in his hand, 'Let's go up to my room.'

Sansa gasped, her eyes dreamy, as he kissed her once more. He scooped an arm under her legs and another under her spine and tried to lift her, but his knee wouldn't budge. He set her back down, clutching the pain in his knee whilst she sat beside him, her hand caressing his shoulder soothingly.

'Damn my knee!' he cursed, and then looked at Sansa, shame in his eyes, 'I'm sorry, Miss Stark, it seems that I'm not the romantic hero you want me to be.'

'No...' she murmured, coaxing him to face her, 'Darling Willas, I don't want another man. You... you're the wisest, gentlest man I know, and I wouldn't swap you for any other.'

Willas half-smiled, meeting her eyes as he moved in to kiss her.

'I love you, Mr Tyrell,' she said against his lips.

He tore away from her and, with her help, heaved himself to his feet. Her arm linked through his and Willas was sure she didn't have to press her breasts against him that much, but he liked it.

He quickly checked out the door that there was no-one around, and then they fled as fast as Willas' leg would allow him to his bedroom.

Inside, he set his cane against the wall, locked the door, and watched Sansa before him. She took her boots off, and was stripping off her gown, standing there in her petticoat and corset. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, shaking her red hair out down her back.

She sucked her lip a moment with bedroom eyes before saying, 'Unlace me?'

Willas hadn't moved so fast since before his fall. His fingers worked rapidly at the laces of her corset, slowing slightly as he realised that she was sighing at each gasp of air she could now reach. She stood before him in her white chemise, still looking back over her shoulder, and then he couldn't wait any longer. His lips met hers passionately, their flesh hot and sticky, and he was vaguely aware of her thin fingers working away at his clothes, until they were both in their undergarments. She pulled away from him just to heave her chemise over her head, and then she was naked before him, her skin pale alabaster, smooth and warm to the touch, more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. He stared her up and down for a long moment.

'I want to paint you nude,' he growled, making her laugh, before he pushed her back onto his bed, taking a moment to settle himself on top of her, making sure his leg was in a comfortable place.

'I want to Isee/i you nude!' she retorted, pulling his final piece of clothing off. His naked body was a light tan colour, and just as lean and beautiful as she had imagined. She sucked in a deep breath, suddenly nervous because he was older than her, and a Pre-Raphaelite Brother, and so very, very beautiful. 'I... Willas, I haven't ever done this before.'

He softened, stroking her face lightly. 'Me neither, Little Wolf. You are the first woman I have ever loved.'

Sansa smiled, a proud little smile that told him his words had reassured her. He kissed her again, warm and explorative, cupping her small breasts in his hands and delighting in the feeling of her nipples hardening under his touch. Her hand wrapped around his wrist and guided one of his hands down to the wetness between her legs.

His fingers curled inside her while she whimpered against his lips, and then finally she stopped him.

'I'm ready,' she breathed, her eyes celestial blue before his.

He couldn't hold himself back any longer, and he moved his stiff manhood to her heat, pushing in as gently as he could. She moaned, but it sounded more like pleasure than pain.

After, she lay in the crook of his arm, with her head on his bare chest. The duvet was only laid up to their waists, and Willas was finding himself very distracted by the mermaid-like effect of her flowing red curls draped over her naked breasts. He had another urge to paint her in the nude, flowers draped across her body and that lovely, wry smile on her face.

'You know I can't go back to him now,' she whispered, the smile breaking.

'Who?' Willas asked, unable to remember any man who laid a claim to Sansa whilst she was here in his arms, so sweet and so entirely _his_.

'Joffrey,' she spat, hiding her face in his chest.

Willas took a deep breath to calm himself. It was true. There was no way she could go back to that little bastard now that she knew what she was missing, no way he could let her marry him and have to spend the rest of his life imagining her lying below him, thinking of England with tears rolling down her face- or worse, enjoying Joffrey's love, making those beautiful noises for someone else.

'We must run away,' said Willas.

'I thought you weren't a romantic hero,' she said, her voice cracking.

'I want you to be mine, Sansa,' he said, sitting up and pulling her with him so that her face was curled up to his. 'I want you to be my wife, and my muse, and my lover- always and forever.'

She stayed silent, looking up at him with softness in her eyes that made him want to kiss her, but he didn't because she looked uncertain.

'Speak, sweet Sansa,' he urged quietly, 'Tell me what you are thinking.'

'I want that very much, Willas,' she answered, 'But I was wondering how I can ever leave my family.'

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I can't get enough of this pair and their naughty bedroom antics. **


	3. Chapter 3

At dinner that night, Sansa sat beside Robb, on her father's right hand. It was only their family eating together that night, and Sansa was making a dedicated effort to be nice to all of them. Her father was staring at her adoringly, and she had been laughing along with Robb all evening. Even Arya was enjoying her older sister's company, when Sansa sat patiently and listened to her tales of tree-climbing and playing with boys, although their mother sighed and, now Arya was fifteen, Sansa wasn't sure she disagreed with her.

After dinner, Catelyn ordered Bran and Rickon to bed, and the nanny came in, but Sansa volunteered to tuck them in.

Rickon was half-asleep when she tucked him in, and she perched on the edge of his bed, stroking her little brother's tufty auburn hair.

'You look a proper Tully, Rickon,' she said, to his sleepy form, 'I wonder if you can follow their motto.'

Rickon shifted slightly, but he was nearly asleep, so she continued, 'I can't. _Family, duty, honour._ I love my family, but not as much as him, I cannot perform my duty and my honour is in tatters. I wish I could be as good as you, dear brother.'

Bran came in then, having been to the toilet, and settled himself into his bed. Sansa kissed Rickon's forehead and then went over to Bran's bed.

'You seem different, Sansa,' he said, always too perceptive for one so young.

'How so, Bran?' she said, trying to laugh and pretend his insight hadn't spooked her.

'You have a flush to your cheeks that doesn't die down, and you're being lovely to everyone, even Arya,' he said, 'Yet when I look at you and you don't realise, you look impossibly sad.'

'Can I tell you something, Bran?' she asked in a light voice, 'And will you promise me you'll never tell?'

'I promise,' he whispered.

'Don't worry about me,' she said, 'I'll always be safe as long as I am happy, and I could never be happy with a husband I did not love.'

Bran looked puzzled, but he nodded solemnly, and leant forward to kiss his sister's cheek with soft little lips.

'Be happy then, Sansa,' he said, and rolled over, yawning out, 'Goodnight.'

'Goodnight, Bran,' she said, tearing up a little. He didn't really know what she was going to do, but his innocent support felt like a blessing, and made her feel much better about going.

Downstairs, she played cards with Robb, Jon and Arya for a little while. Eventually, Catelyn made them go to bed and Robb took his sisters upstairs. Sansa gave Jon and her parents each a kiss on the cheek before she went. Arya went straight into the bedroom, but Sansa stood outside the door with Robb for a moment.

'What is troubling you, Sansa?' he asked in a gentle voice, placing his hands on the wall either side of her head, caging her in.

'Nothing, Robb,' she sighed, trying to get away, but Robb pushed her back to the wall and cupped her face in his hand.

'Really, Sansa, what is it?' Robb pried, 'If that Joffrey has-'

'Robb-' she cut him off, 'Don't... don't punish Joffrey. It's not entirely his fault.'

'What?' Robb asked, and Sansa wished he was as accepting as Bran.

'I'll be happy, Robb, I promise,' she said, smiling placatingly. In that moment, Robb's auburn curls reminded her Willas' lighter ones, and her heart ached.

It seemed to placate Robb, as he wrapped his arms around Sansa and clutched her against his chest for a long moment. It was nice to just be held, Sansa mused, and feel perfectly safe. Willas' arms excited her, but there was always a sense of nervousness about her when she was with him, whereas in Robb's arms she could just be his little sister, and be held until it was all better.

When he realised her, he cupped her face and smiled. 'You brave girl.'

He kissed her forehead and wished her goodnight.

Sansa nearly cracked.

She really did crack when she was curled up beside Arya in her bed later. They had been offered separate rooms, but, despite their differences, the two sisters loved to curl up under the covers and talk all night long.

'San?' whispered Arya when they were settled.

'Yes?'

'Have you ever been in love?' she asked.

Sansa smiled, remembering Willas' lovely eyes, and the way he had whispered that he loved her when they were still hot and fizzing in his bed, and said, 'Yes.'

'What does it feel like?' her little sister murmured.

Sansa laid on her back and took in a deep breath. 'Like there's a bubble in your chest full of smaller bubbles which is so fragile and you don't want it to pop, but when it does, when you admit to yourself that you are in love, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world because all those smaller bubbles flood your body and make it float.'

Arya let out a contented little laugh.

'I think I might be in love,' she said, 'But I'll never be allowed to marry him.'

Sansa stilled. 'I won't be allowed to marry him either.'

'What will you do about it, Sansa?' Arya asked.

'Promise you won't tell?'

'Always,' said Arya. The two sisters always kept each other's secrets.

'I'm going to run away.'

...

The next morning, Sansa secretly packed a few dresses into a carpet bag and then went out into the gardens. She sat under the tree where they had kissed the other night, a heavy enough bush that she couldn't be seen from the house, and watched Arya run across the third floor landing, her little face appearing in each of the windows as she went past. Sansa would miss her siblings. She wondered if she could return to them once she and Willas were married. She wondered if her father would ever forgive her. She knew Jon wouldn't.

'Sansa?' whispered Willas, pushing through the greenery and standing behind her. His hands rested on her waist and he leant in to kiss her neck. She combed her fingers through his hair.

'Are you ready?' he asked, his lips on her ear.

Sansa took one last look at her home, Winterfell's dark grey stone walls which had always been so welcoming suddenly a strange place to her, then turned back to Willas, sweet Willas with his welcoming eyes. 'I'm ready,' she answered solemnly, and they ran out to the road, where Willas' single-horse trap was waiting. He helped her up, and then took up the reins. The wind whipped Sansa's hair, and washed her free.

**A/N: I just have a lot of Stark feelings okay? The next chapter could well be the last one, so I hope enough of you are enjoying this enough to carry on to the end!**


	4. Chapter 4

'There!' she cried, 'I can see land!'

Willas turned around, leaving Mrs Rustle to talk to herself, and looked over her shoulder, placing his big palms on her waist from behind.

'We're free,' Willas whispered in her ear, gazing out at the sea but being careful to keep the side of Sansa's red head in his eyeline. He had promised himself never to let her out of his sight again, he loved her presence too much.

'We... we will go back, won't we?' Sansa whispered, biting her lip and looking around to Willas' face.

'Once we are married, and everything is settled,' he said, 'We can, if it is what you wish, my love.'

Sansa smiled, and kissed him gently. The old lady behind them, Mrs Rustle, huffed, but Sansa was beyond caring. She had eloped with a painter. She was no fine young lady any more.

She fiddled with the ring on her fourth finger, which Willas had bought to make their passage easier. She was travelling as Mrs Hightower, Willas' beloved grandfather's surname, and, despite the lie, she only felt proud, as if their marriage was a true one. It would be in a week or so, as soon as Willas could find a Mairie in France and get a licence.

...

They found an apartment for rent in Deauville and Willas spoke to the landlady in quick French which Sansa only half-understood. She'd always found French difficult, and was much better at needlework and music.

They were in the apartment by evening, and went for a meal on the seafront. Sansa tried _moules_ and discovered she loved the salty taste of the mussels on her tongue, even though she felt a little squeamish about ripping the meat from the shells with her fingers.

Later, they went back to their apartment, and Sansa sat on the side of the bed whilst Willas took off his coat and shoes.

'Won't you take your coat off, my sweet?' he asked her, standing before her, putting her fingers through her lustrous auburn hair. She stood, her eyes downcast and shy, and Willas eased her out of her warm coat. He hung it in the wardrobe and came back to her, kneeling at her feet to unlace her boots. He slipped them off her, and then rolled down her stockings, kissing her feet once they were bared. His eyes looked up to Sansa's, and he noticed the sadness in her eyes.

'What's the matter, love?' he said, kneeling up to place a hand on her cheek.

'I'm just nervous,' she said, licking her lips.

'Didn't you... enjoy it?' he asked, her nerves making him blush, 'Last time?'

She smiled, leaning forward. 'Of course,' she whispered, 'But this is different, isn't it?'

'How?'

'You...' she blushed, smiling again, 'I think of you as my husband now.'

Willas laughed, and kissed her.

...

Later, when she was lying naked in his arms, Willas swept his eyes over Sansa's pale form again. Her eyes were closed but she wasn't asleep, she was just enjoying the feel of Willas's skin against hers, the whisper and tickle of his breath on her face. He kissed her softly, and she opened them.

'That's it!' he announced, getting up, 'I need to draw you nude.'

Sansa laughed, sitting up, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her hair forward, her posture saying she was shy of his gaze.

'No, no, lay back down!' he instructed, pushing her back by the shoulder to lay flat on the bed. She lay on her side, instinctively tucking her legs together in such a way as to hide her sex. Willas combed her hair over her breasts, like a mermaid relaxing on a rock, and then sat back on a chair by the bed. He got out his sketchpad and a pencil, and sat to draw.

She lay still for a while, though there was a blush on her cheeks as she watched Willas' eyes roam over her body and back to his paper, the pencil sweeping across the page the only sound between them.

After a little while, Sansa shivered.

'Are you nearly finished?' she asked, 'I'm cold.'

Willas stopped, and put down his pencil. He turned the pad around to show her. 'What do you think, is it done, my poor little wolf?'

Sansa smiled at the portrait, deliciously excited by the image of her naked self, so outrageous by her old standard, feeling naughty.

'I like it,' she proclaimed, dragging Willas towards her and wrapping her legs around him, feeling him harden against her. She sat in his lap and kissed him furiously, her tongue dipping into his mouth and gliding across his teeth. Willas moved his hands to her breasts and kneaded, until she paused for breath and he put his lips on her breast instead, sucking and kissing and inciting little moans from Sansa that made him feel light-headed.

He laid her down on the bed, kissing his way down the shuddering planes of her stomach to the gap between her legs. He spread her legs with his hands and kissed her folds, almost chastely. He looked up at her blushing red cheeks before his lips met her flesh again, his tongue curling inside her and kissing her deliciously, the sweet taste of her on his tongue.

Later, she fell asleep in his arms, and Willas wondered how someone could be so entirely perfect.

...

They were married the following week, dragging in an old lady who was praying and the gravedigger to be witnesses.

Willas wore his best suit and Sansa wore a thin white gown, decorated with lace. The priest was kindly, and when they exchanged vows, there were tears in Sansa's eyes.

...

They sat on the beach all afternoon, staring out at the sea and twining their fingers together. Sansa couldn't stop playing with the ring on Willas' finger, and Willas longed to go back to their apartment and get undressed, but it was still early in the day.

Eventually they did go back, having had a little lunch, and made love.

It was three o'clock when Sansa got up, pulled on Willas' shirt, and sat at the writing desk by the window. She began to scribble away on a blank piece of paper.

'What are you writing, my dove?' Willas asked.

'A letter,' she answered, turning and smiling at him.

'Who to?' he asked, confused.

'Joffrey,' she answered, and a slow grin spread across her face.

Willas read it when she was done, and wet himself laughing for a good few minutes.

'It's a good job you're mine,' he murmured into her lips, 'You would be utterly wasted on Joffrey Baratheon, my sweet stunner.'

**A/N: I had to write Willas drawing her naked, I'm sorry. ****_Draw me like one of your French girls._**** It was too good to resist. Oh, and in case you didn't know (although I mentioned it once), a Mairie is a town hall. I wasn't actually planning on them going abroad, but someone in a review mentioned it and I thought, hey, what's more romantic than running away to France?**

**I hope you enjoyed this fic! Although this is the end, someone on asked if I would do a prequel, and I'm not promising anything but that could happen sometime in the future. Until then, Au Revoir!**


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